Christmas at Whitefriars: A Novella Page 3

  The steel bands surrounding her chest tightened, and she was on the verge of another attack. Her heart raced and breathing became difficult again, but somehow just holding the paper bag in her hands gave an odd sort of comfort.

  “I thought they were weekly reports.”

  “You still don’t read the weekly reports I send?”

  How to answer that? They were filled with nothing but charts and percentages and projections. She didn’t know what to make of them and had complete confidence in his abilities to manage the company. All she cared about was that quarterly infusion of cash.

  “I need to do better,” she admitted.

  The candy was collected and Mr. Wooten stood. “Call me Everett,” he said bluntly. “We need to discuss the case. I haven’t had dinner yet. Will you join me?”

  “Excellent idea,” Colin said. “The leek soup here is beyond compare.”

  Colin was always quite the gourmand when it came to dining and she’d trust his judgment. A maître d’ led them into a wood-paneled dining room filled with the warm scents of fresh bread, garlic, and braised beef. The lights were dim but a crackling fireplace on one side of the room provided cozy illumination among the clinking china and soft voices.

  But they weren’t here to dine, they were here to avoid being evicted from their ancestral home. She’d let Colin lead the discussion, for he surely had the best instincts for business.

  “What are your recommendations for tonight?” Colin asked the maître d’ after they were all seated.

  “The chef recommends the leek soup, which is always a favorite, and for dinner the baked lobster has been prepared with garlic butter and an au gratin finish of toasted breadcrumbs, fresh herbs, and grated parmesan cheese.”

  Colin didn’t even look at the menu but simply handed it back to the maître d’ with a smile. “Excellent. I’ll have as you suggest. Mary?”

  “The same.”

  The maître d’ turned to Everett, who scrutinized the menu as though it was the Rosetta Stone, taking an inordinately long time before ordering. “I’ll have the pumpkin soup for starters,” he finally said. “For the main course the chicken with the orange glaze, with a side of carrots.”

  Across the candlelit table, Mary caught Colin’s gaze. Every item Everett just ordered was orange. The apricot candy he sampled in the lobby had been orange, too. Curiosity clawed at her. She was dying to know if it was true that he only ate one color of food per day. She opened her mouth to ask, but Colin guessed what she was thinking and gave a tiny shake of his head to dissuade her.

  Her curiosity got worse when the men ordered from the bar, for while Colin settled for a small tumbler of spiced rum, Everett ordered a Grand Marnier. She had little experience with spirits, but when the drinks arrived, Everett’s drink was a deep orange.

  She couldn’t help herself. “I’m not familiar with Grand Marnier,” she said. “What can you tell me about it?”

  “It’s a French cognac,” Everett said. “Flavored with the peel of bitter orange and a little sugar. I don’t particularly care for it.”

  “Then why did you order it?”

  Everett wiggled the glass, observing the jewel-toned liquid in the candlelight like a scientist. “I like to try different things,” he said. “Now, let’s get down to business. It seems Whitefriars is in financial distress, and I—”

  “What makes you think so?” Colin interrupted.

  “Why else would you be advertising to lease out rooms?”

  Colin turned to her. She’d rather die than admit the truth, but it wouldn’t be lying to say the influx of cash would be welcome. “The rye fields no longer yield the revenue they once did.”

  Everett’s brows lowered in concern. “But we discussed this. Didn’t you implement the drainage pump I recommended?”

  “I did. Thank you for the recommendation, for it’s been working like a charm. As far back as I can remember the south fields have been waterlogged, but now—”

  “So what’s the problem? If your fields aren’t performing, you should have written to me. I can help.”

  “It isn’t that. I’m afraid the price of rye has been falling for decades, and no advice can solve that.”

  “Nonsense. I purchase raw food staples from all over the world, and there are ways to order commodities for bulk pricing. Or take creative advantage of international tariffs. You should have consulted me. Haven’t I always offered help in the past?”

  He did, but she couldn’t imagine he’d could have any insight into the price of rye. In hindsight, that was foolish. This man probably bought and sold more rye in a year than Whitefriars sold in decades.

  “I see now that I should have,” she admitted. “I thought the simple leasing of a few rooms in the castle could be a reliable form of revenue that can—”

  “It’s unacceptable, and a violation of the contract your brother signed with my father.”

  “How so?” Colin asked.

  “It cheapens the image of the castle. My father and I built a luxury brand of food products on the Whitefriars name and reputation. We invested a fortune in that image.”

  A waiter interrupted the conversation to deliver the first course. What a welcome reprieve, for Everett’s rapid-fire form of discussion was alarming. The ritual of grinding pepper and sprinkling additional grated cheese atop their soup further slowed the conversation, but too soon the waiter left, and they were back to business.

  “Inviting guests to stay in our home does not impact the reputation of Whitefriars,” Colin pointed out.

  Everett’s voice was sharp. “Vaudeville performers?”

  “Vaudeville?” she asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Robbie and Carlotta Bannister. They run the largest and tackiest vaudeville show in America, and now they’re bragging up and down the East Coast that they are staying at Whitefriars for the entire month of February.”

  Mary took a spoonful of soup to play for time. She knew nothing of the Bannisters other than the pleasant correspondence she’d exchanged with Carlotta Bannister to make the arrangements, and they’d already paid in full. She’d worried she set too high an asking price, especially for a dismal month like February, but the Bannisters paid without a hint of haggling. She hadn’t known how they earned their money, nor did she care.

  “It materially effects the value of the Whitefriars image,” Everett continued. “The Bannisters are famous for their travelling freak show. Two-headed cats, wrestling ladies, dwarf shows. This is not the sort of image I can permit to be associated with Whitefriars.”

  Colin cleared his throat and shot her an annoyed glare. “My apologies. I did not realize the Bannisters had made reservations at Whitefriars.”

  Given the chill on Colin’s face, she had committed quite a blunder in accepting their reservation. How was she to know of the Bannisters’ reputation? She’d never stepped foot outside of England. All she knew was that Mrs. Bannister was perfectly polite and willing to pay in full. Those funds had already been spent to re-gravel the front drive, which had been a shockingly expensive endeavor given that the front drive was more than a mile long.

  Colin and Everett continued discussing the matter and she tried to pay attention, but it was hard to concentrate while reliving how difficult it had been to re-gravel the drive. She was proud of that work! Most of it had been done by laborers, but she had personally helped level the ground and pulled roots to save some of the cost. And now Colin complained.

  A waiter arrived with their meal, which caused the conversation to cease while plates were exchanged. The sight of Everett’s plate of orange food did little to reassure her that he could be rational, but he’d been kind to her out in the lobby. He helped a stranger in distress, and even though he’d been a little stiff, she must not overlook that.

  “If we extricated ourselves from the Bannister reservation, would that satisfy your concerns?” Colin asked once the waiter retreated.

  “The Bannisters are only the beginnin
g of the problem,” Everett replied. “I object to using the building upon which I built a company to be rented out to the highest bidder. It tarnishes the estate.”

  “I would never do anything to tarnish Whitefriars,” she said. Her work restoring it was the only thing of which she truly was proud. “I wish you understood Whitefriars as I do. It began as a cloister for Cistercian monks over a thousand years ago. Back then it was only a wooden monastery that’s long gone, and the land has changed hands many times over the years. The first stage of the castle was built in the fourteenth century. Whitefriars is over five hundred years of history and thousands of lives. I’d give anything to know more about those people who once lived there. Colin says I’m crazy, but I can sense them as I walk the grounds or explore the castle. It’s impossible to know their individual stories, but I know they were there, and they fought in great, magnificent causes. I will always honor them.”

  She looked at Everett, surprised by the hint of curiosity on his face. It gave her the courage to continue. “The monks who founded Whitefriars dedicated their lives to prayer and caring for the poor. Henry VIII seized Whitefriars in 1538 during the dissolution of the monasteries, and a hundred years later it was awarded to the Beckwiths by a grateful King James for military service. During the civil war the baron risked his life to give shelter to fleeing royalists. But it wasn’t all warfare and strife. Centuries went by when people fought to save a harvest or raise their children. In the seventeenth century the great hall was used as a hospital during the cholera outbreak. This estate is a microcosm of England itself. I would never do anything to cheapen the memory of the people who lived here. They inspire me. I want to be as big and bold as the people who’ve gone before me. Don’t laugh, Colin… I’m serious.”

  “I know you are,” her brother said, then turned to Everett, a hint of amusement still lingering on his face. “She still pulls weeds and lays wreaths on the monks’ graves. We’re Protestants, so my father thought it heresy to be honoring the Catholic monks like that, but she still does it.”

  Perhaps they were getting sidetracked, but Everett seemed curious, so she continued. “Sometimes late at night I can almost hear the echo of the people who’ve come before me. Every now and then I stumble across faint traces of them. Someone’s initials carved on an old wall or scribbling in the margins of a book. Once I found a baby’s rattle with little marks on the teething stem. I wonder about the baby who left those teeth marks and what became of him. It’s a blessing and a privilege to be the caretaker of this estate.”

  “I’d like to see it,” Everett said.

  “Please, come!” she said. If he saw Whitefriars in person, it would be clear she wasn’t cheapening the grand estate. “You can have the tower rooms and be our very first guest.”

  Everett extracted a compact leather book from his breast pocket, consulting it with a frown on his face. “I am in town for three more days. Tomorrow will be spent touring confectioneries, but I can visit the day after that, if it would be convenient?”

  “Excellent,” Colin said, and Mary felt an easing of the tension in her spine. Perhaps Everett was a normal man who could be reasoned with after all!

  The maître d’ arrived with the menu card for dessert, and as usual, he volunteered the bakery chef’s personal recommendations. “May I suggest the chocolate and raspberry torte? It is a masterpiece of bittersweet French cocoa infused with sweet vanilla cream and a fresh raspberry glaze.”

  “It sounds marvelous,” she said, and Colin agreed.

  Everett did not. “I’ll have the orange sherbet, please.”

  ***

  Mary began strategizing the moment the carriage door pulled closed. “Everything has to be perfect,” she said, her teeth chattering from a combination of the icy night air and nervousness over the impending visit.

  Colin mercifully agreed. “We’ll clear the broken equipment out of the stables and burn it if we must. Let’s go ahead and cut pine boughs and drape the railings in the great hall. It might distract from the fact that the staircase is still rickety.”

  “Can you wire to New York for his food schedule?” At Colin’s befuddled look, she clarified. “You told me he only eats one color of food a day, and that his colors come in order. Today was orange. Heaven help us if he visits on a blue or purple day, but I shall make sure we can accommodate him. I need to know so that Mrs. Galloway can have the necessary ingredients on hand.”

  “Serving him blue food isn’t going to save Whitefriars,” Colin said dryly. “We need to prove we haven’t cheapened its image in preparing to lease the tower.”

  “Nothing I’ve done is cheap, believe me. Could you please wire to New York and get to that man who told you about Mr. Wooten’s penchant for colored food?”

  Colin had a telegraph wire installed in Whitefriars decades ago. As a boy, he’d taught himself Morse code to listen to cricket scores and news of the world on their isolated, windswept estate. Mary never needed an escape. Tramping through the woods and attics of Whitefriars was enough to fire her imagination with speculation about the monks, the warriors, the lords and ladies who’d lived there over the centuries.

  “I’ll wire, but please don’t pin your hopes on this. Everett Wooten is all about the returns on his financial investments, and we can’t afford to forget it.”

  Chapter Three

  Everett could have kicked himself for giving in to the momentary surge of attraction to Mary Beckwith that prompted his agreement to stay overnight at Whitefriars. He’d been unexpectedly moved by her passion for the estate, but that was no reason to lose his mind and endanger the pending deals he had percolating in Berlin and New York City.

  And yet, he’d done it. Thirty-five years of business-like and responsible behavior, and he chucked it away because a pretty lady spoke movingly about the privilege of tending some monks’ graves. Now he was going to have to endure two days of small talk with strangers, and there were few things on this planet he disliked more than small talk. The soirees his mother made him attend had always been pure torture. Laughing young ladies and useless men of leisure indulging in witty repartee, while he stood about feeling big, awkward, and out of place. He once even bought a book of etiquette for gentlemen to glean insight into the mysterious art of conversation. None of it worked. While his mother was alive he attended her parties and socialized like other men of his class, but it had been hard. Very hard. She died three years ago, and he hadn’t been to a weekend party or time-wasting soiree since.

  Now here he was, trapped in a carriage on his way to Whitefriars. To make it worse, he’d been told several Beckwith relatives from America were also visiting, making the entire endeavor seem uncomfortably like a weekend house party.

  But he needed to investigate Whitefriars. Too much of his business depended on the image of Whitefriars that was engraved on the label of every jar of food he sold.

  A gatehouse arched over the entrance, two buildings framing the road joined by an enclosed passageway stretching over the path. Even after passing through the gatehouse he still couldn’t see the castle. Towering oaks and juniper trees lined the drive that curved through the land. Every now and then a break in the trees showed fields of winter wheat, looking healthy and well-established for December. A faint smile threatened, for he’d consulted a number of experts when Mary first wrote to him of the problem with waterlogged fields. He loved solving problems, and by all accounts his recommendations for draining the land had been successful.

  The carriage rounded a bend and Whitefriars loomed before him. The castle sprawled across two acres, a hodgepodge of different styles cobbled together over the centuries. A square central building was flanked by two wings, three spires, and a large tower. The castle was built of honeyed stone with mullioned windows that sparkled in the sunlight, looking grand and stately in the barren winter landscape.

  As the carriage rounded another bend, he was able to see the silhouette that had been made famous on millions of pricey jars of sauces and j
ams. He rapped on the carriage to ask the driver to stop, for he’d prefer to walk these last few acres. It would give him the chance to inspect the grounds.

  The drive looked freshly graveled, but a few of the outbuildings visible through the leafless trees were ramshackle and dilapidated. Those couldn’t be helped. He’d paid a fortune to restore the actual castle, but nothing toward the outbuildings. It was another reason he didn’t want visitors here. If people got a close look at the estate, it would be like peeling the curtain back to reveal decline and decay. Not things he wanted associated with his pricey line of gourmet food.

  He tugged on his collar to flip it up against the frigid wind. The air smelled good. Piney. Maybe a little peat. Altogether much nicer than Manhattan, which smelled like wet pavement at this time of year.

  The front door opened and Colin stepped outside, sending him a hearty wave. Everett muttered a curse, his last few minutes of privacy gone, for others had gathered alongside Colin. They waved, smiled, and called out greetings. He sank a little farther into his coat, wishing they hadn’t all assembled in such an intimidating group. It was going to be a long weekend.

  “Welcome to Whitefriars!” Colin called out as he came striding down the path toward him and extended his hand.

  Everett returned the handshake. “Thank you. It’s good to finally see the place.”

  “Come in out of the cold. You look freezing.” The others had already retreated behind the massive front door, and all too soon he joined them. Lots of people, including two young women holding toddlers.

  Mary looked as elegant as a cameo, her pale complexion in stark contrast to her glossy dark hair. She looked so refined, not at all like the effusive and sentimental woman who waxed with poetic nostalgia the other evening. What on earth prompted him to give in to the momentary jolt of insanity? Mary Beckwith was precisely the sort of polished, high-society lady he always avoided.